Lost to Everything
by LunaNotLoony
Summary: Locked up in the Weasley house, unable to contact Scorpius, Rose Weasley is bored. Dangerously bored. So when her aunt tells Rose her war story, Rose becomes obsessed.


"I can't _believe_ elves are being treated in this way," Hermione said, throwing down the newspaper. "It's completely disgusting. I thought we'd eliminated this treatment but now-."

"Great! We'll be sewing wholly hats all over again," Ron deadpanned, and winked at Hugo, who let out a squeal of laughter.

Hermione had decked me out in wholly hats, with a green bobble on the top. It looked hideous, but they were the only ones around so I couldn't be bothered to shake it off. I was their dear little house elf.

I went through to the kitchen, and found that one of my parents or my brother had left the lemonade out, with the sun beating down onto it. It was lukewarm now, and flat. I knew they wouldn't care about the finer tastes, even though it was disgusting, so I drank it. Perhaps they'd beg me to go out and buy some more, and I could escape from this stuffy little house.

It was the Christmas holidays, but the weather was still sticky and hot, like it had been all year. Hermione's shrill voice pierced through the kitchen door, drilling itself into my head. Stupid women. The fact the newspaper deigned to report house elf abuse was a brilliant sign, far better than if they remained silent. They were angry about it, like Hermione, full of sensasionlism. If Hermione wasn't exaggerating, thirty years ago house elf abuse wouldn't have been a sensation.

I was itching to get to old gas fire and exchange just a few words with Scorpius, my boyfriend. But it was impossible; the fire was roaring away behind Ron's back and I couldn't talk to him without them watching.

I loved Scorpius. He was eloquent, cold and individual and I thought I might die without him. My family sweltered me, always rambling about the big news stories, needing to be so absolutely correct. But Scorpius. He just didn't care about it all and it was so refreshing. Without him, my family would overheat me and I'd burn to pieces in their chaos.

Right now, I could be at Hogwarts. We could be together, alone on the ground, just dots on the other side of the lake, if you looked from Hogwarts' windows. We could be strolling away, hands linked together, winds thrashing us about like needles. We could be debating our different spells we were inventing, or swapping horror stories of our family, or just being. Being Together. Being Rose and Scorpius. Being the only thing in the universe.

There was a rap on the door, and Hugo jumped up. He was so preppy. If he grew boobs and lengthened his hair, he'd be a cheerleader. It's the Potters at the door, of course. Brilliant Harry Potter and Wonderful Ginny Potter and their offspring, James, Albus and Lily. Of the five of them, I can only stand Albus. He's quieter, a bit shy, which means I can ignore him well enough. The others are constantly nattering, filling my head with rubbish.

After a while, they notice I'm not in the living room and drag me back and I watch Harry, Ron, Ginny and James get drunker and drunker, while Hermione berates them for it and gets drunk herself. James was pretty funny. At eighteen, he clearly thought he could handle alcohol but is puking before Hermione takes her first sip. It's like one of those boring family shows, with mishaps and OTT characters round every corner.

Round midnight, something interesting happens. Ginny sees Lily hugging a diary and freaks out. In a drunken stupor, she starts flinging hexes at the diary, one of which hits Lily and leaves her with a huge red splash on her face. The diary was broken into boil-sprouting, burning dust. Lily started howling now and somehow broke Ginny out of her rage. She hugged Lily and began rocking her back and forth. While I wouldn't really care if Lily was strangled, it's far less effort to prise Lily away from Ginny and carry her up to her room.

"What happened?" Lily whispered.

"Didn't you notice? Your mummy chucked some first-year hexes at your diary, one of which hit-.

"I saw, just why?" Lily said, shaking her red curls out like a dog. "It's confusing. Even if she was drunk, why? Don't you think it's confusing, Rose?"

"Very."

"I'm just so shocked, aren't you? I think it must be something to do with the war, mustn't it?"

"Probably," I agreed. Talking at me seemed to help Lily recover so I let her burble on for a few more minutes, nodding when appropriate.

For once, it seemed that Lily might have been right. By the afternoon, Ginny had recovered from her hangover and having been informed of her behaviour last night, probably by Hermione, sat us down by the fire and started talking. Talking really was a talent that ran in the Potter family. At first, I glanced longingly at the fire, thinking of Scorpius, but as she went on my eyes were unwillingly fixed on her.

"It happened when I was very young, only twelve years old," Ginny said. "It was my first year at Hogwarts and I was thrilled to be there. I'd grown up with my brothers leaving for Hogwarts each term, returning jubilant, full of stories. For me, it was a place of dreams. Anything could happen there.

"I discovered a small book slipped inside my textbooks, black and ragged, seemingly unremarkable. I thought it must have been a mistake that somebody had put it in my book accidently, but with no way of tracing them back, I claimed it as mine. We were a lot less privileged than you are now, Lily, the smallest property of mine pleased me. Eagerly, I began writing, pouring page after page into the book, stripping myself naked of pretences.

"Then, after I'd been writing in it for weeks, my words faded. The ink I'd poured into the pages came boiling back, without my command. They told me that Harry, your father, who I adored even then, would soon return my feelings if I persisted. The diary said it was impossible for him not to.

"At first, I felt violated. Someone else had been reading my diary, absorbing my most private secrets. I was worried they would ridicule me, but that was the difference! They could not- as a spirit in the pages- show my work to anyone, and if they hurt me, I could simply throw it aside. I liked the diary, as it was mine, so I saw no reason to discard it. Myself, I soon decided that the spirit in the diary had no more power over me than I him. He poured secrets back into me with absolute trust, sympathised with my every word- he convinced me that I loved him.

"The diary became all I could live for. Every night, I would scribble away in the girls' toilets, so no one saw and stole my precious diary. Any moment I was free, I would pull out the diary, my best friend, almost my lover, and tell him everything, swell with warmth when he understood. Handsome, sympathetic, devious. He was charming and I was charmed. The days blurred. Only writing in the diary existed anymore, and other events were part of a dream, flitting past in a greying blue. Once I broke out of it, and found blood on my hands and ginger hair. I heard that the cat, Mrs Norris had been petrified and a message written in blood, and searching my mind, I found only blackness. But these spells were like icy water over me, shaking me awake. It was easier to fall back into the blur, not think, not even exist.

"A boy and the ghost were petrified, and once again, I found only blackness in my memories, blood on my hands. It was a huge mystery and people were debating the culprit, the criminal. I didn't know if it was me but I felt constantly violated, dirty, my skin unwashed. Somehow, I guessed at the diary and threw it into a toilet.

"I must have been right, I decided. My muggy feeling in my head cleared, and I found that I could remember everything again, although the past was misty. But now I was certain that something had happened and I was terrified of being discovered.

"Weeks past, I grew complacent. I rekindled my crush on your father, and in a burst of silly aliveness, sent him a valentine. It didn't go well. Harry hated it, everyone laughed, but worse of all, as he dropped his bag, I saw- the diary.

"I was stupid. Wrapped up in my fears, worried that the diary could spill my secrets, I was possessed again, by myself. I wasn't Ginny anymore. Somehow, I retained the skills of stealth, of cold-blooded crime Tom Riddle taught me. I stole the diary back and was lost to it again. It wrecked me. Once, I tried to fight back, to escape the thick grey air the diary smothered me in, to tell Harry, but I couldn't. I was made to write my own death message on the wall, in rooster blood, and went down to the Chamber of Secrets to slowly die.

"Harry destroyed the diary, but I can't forget. My body released the basalisk, snapped roooster's throats, waited to murder Muggle-Borns. Out of fear, I stole the diary back and willingly submitted myself to the murder of Muggle-Borns. I won't ever forget Tom Riddle, nor how the diary haunted me. Drunk, yesterday, seeing my younger self clutching at a diary, black-covered like mine! I couldn't think. Drunken terror of the past overruled the safety of my darling, my daughter. But I can overcome the diary but my pain if I lost you, Lily. I'm sorry."

There was a long pause, all eyes locked on Ginny. It took a moment for me to come out of a trance. I didn't truly care about Ginny's horror story in the war- I had heard my parents crying over worse. I was in a second generation, with the constant hovering shadow of the war, but I couldn't relate. I couldn't care. While Lily fiercely hugged her mother, I stayed still, eyes misty.

Tom Riddle had left a shadow over this generation even though my uncle, O Great One, Harry Potter, had killed him. I was stirred by how he'd weaved his way into lives, into those small domestic scenes where a mother hexed a diary to pieces because of him. His influence had snaked far beyond the battle field, beyond the people he directly touched.

I knew that he was Evil And Cruel. Stories had been told of his tyranny; too often, my parents would murmur comforting words about their battles, or Ron would tell his defeat like a fairy story. But I couldn't help be impressed by his range.

In these moment, when I thought things so completely socially unacceptable, I needed Scorpius. He wouldn't shun my thought for being out of line, or be shocked. We could debate freely about Tom Riddle while kicking our feet in the lake. We were unblemished by bias.

Oh, how hard it was! I had so much to say, and no Scorpius to say it to. It was a physical pain, being separated like this. Dreaming of being alone with Scorpius seemed like a pleasant, if second choice, way of spending the rest of the holidays, but my family bounced about, flinging away Ginny's story like a coat, screaming and pulling at my hands.

Besides, if I ever did get a moment to relax, neither steamy sex nor discussions were on my mind. They were both very nice things to do with Scorpius, but Tom Riddle had an edge of being a more original topic to brood over. I felt rather jealous of Ginny, and all of them fighters, who could mingle with danger so easily. I couldn't submit myself to the murder of Muggle-Borns, willingly or not. I was forced to stay in this house, oppressed by smiles and sweltering heat.

I wanted knowledge! Knowledge! And I could not get it. I even asked my parents about the war, but they simply told me to celebrate Christmas. They both thought Jesus could go stuff himself if anyone Christian wriggled into their circles, and announced it, so why did we have to "celebrate Christmas?"

Yes, I am a Bah Hugbug. Thank you for telling me, but my father got their first.

I was absent-mindedly shredding a newspaper to pieces when I noticed the article. It was the one on the case of house elf abuse which Hermione had been wailing about. I read through it, and sure enough, it was written in an entirely sympathetic manner. Hermione was pathetic for not seeing it as a good sign. Though the author probably wanted to abuse their house elf, just were too afraid of losing their job. Everyone was so restrained now, boxed in by social rules. You could have been freer if you lived in the middle of the war, with Tom Riddle reigning. At least he had the guts to do exactly what he wanted, even if it wasn't popular.

It was then I thought of Kreacher. A lightning bolt of excitement shot through me and I felt more alive than I had in days. He couldn't refuse me information, not if I commanded him, as a Weasley-Potter.

I mustn't be stupid, I reminded myself, but my heart wasn't in it. I felt giddy and seeing my reflection, I looked like a different girl. My eyes were sparkling with excitement, my whole face was stretched into a grin, tense with nervous thrill. I looked as preppy as Hugo! With a miniskirt and pom-poms, I could join the family cheerleading squad!

Giggling, I tied my long deep red hair back in a ponytail and circled the house, looking for a private place to talk to Kreacher. My family would inevitably overreact if they heard, babbling on about Voldemort being oh so bad. The problem was, of course, that there was no where I could class as private. Hugo, Lily and James regularly burst into my room, trying to persuade me to go somewhere. It was impossible to get outside without it being some big family trip, and the whole house was bubbling with movement, and people charging in where they weren't wanted.

I finally decided the toilet was the best bet. At least it had a lock, unlike every other room.

To excuse spending a long time there, I announced I was having a bath, and watched irritably as people scuttled towards the loo for a last minute pee. Finally, I was able to slam the door shut and lock it, whisper Muffliato, and perch on the edge of the bath with an eager grin.

"Here Kreacher," I said, voice full of anticipation and authority.

There was a snap like a whip and the house elf appeared, head ducked in a half-bow. Hermione had tried to free him, and Harry had pressed clothes on him, but Kreacher dodged them, saying it would be a disgrace. That had infuriated Hermione, who thought Winky was a one-off, but Kreacher remained absolutely in power of the Weasley-Potters.

"Here Miss," he growled.

"Tell me about Tom Riddle- about Voldemort," I commanded, looking straight up at him. Kreacher was a knobbly, stringy animal with hollow black eyes which widened in shock. Even house elves were scared of the past, of the intangible and anything against social norms. Even house elves!

"Why do you request this information?" he muttered. "Oh, my master wouldn't like it, he doesn't like this gossiping, snaking into his private life…"

"First, Kreacher, I care absolutely nothing about Harry Potter," I said. "And second, he's not your only master. When you refused to be free, he commanded you treat every Potter or Weasley as him. As a master. So," I went on, ignoring Kreacher's continued mutters. "Tell me about Voldemort. I command you tell the truth. Have you seen him?"

"Yes," the elf finally said, wriggling and ringing his hands under my gaze. "I have."

"How did it come about?"

The elf directed his whisper to the floor but leaning forward, I could still hear him.

"My master Regulus Black… he volunteered me to the Dark Lord. He is having a task that required an elf, Regulus said, and it would be… an honour. He took me to the Dark Lord who made Regulus leave me with him… He took a knife, Mistress, and ran it down my throat. He unpeeled the skin around my next… left it raw and bleeding. I coped with that pain…"

The elf rocked backwards. He had never looked so weak, like a hideous wrinkled baby. His skin was taut around his face, pulled thin, yet around his neck pale skin hung loose. He was small, wrecked by an emotion greater than him (and a person greater than him) and I wondered how his spindly legs could support him at all. But the elf went on.

"He took my blood… spilled it against the door… filthy girl, wanting to know wrongs! gossips!... he went to an invisible boat… took me across the lake… creatures stirred in it… a hand… to an island… there was a potion and he told me to… drink it."

There was a long silence now and the elf crumpled in a heap. He was still so long I almost wondered if the memory had killed him and was relieved when he stirred, letting out a strange, muffled sob.

"Stop crying," I said. "And go on, Kreacher."

The elf forced himself to stem the tears but spoke a tiny, shuddering voice. I slipped off the edge of the bath tub and onto the bathroom floor, desperate to hear every word. The tiles were ice cold against my bare legs.

"It ripped my insides," the elf whispered, still sprawled on the floor. "I saw terrible. Terrible. No… But it burned me inside. no. no. And the Dark Lord dropped a locket into the basin and left the island, laughing."

He said all this very fast, clearly hoping to finish the whole ordeal. When he stopped talking, he fell utterly still again, a dish rag on the toilet floor, and I knew I couldn't make him speak any longer. Besides, Tom Riddle had left in his story and I didn't care to hear of Kreacher's rescue, of Tom Riddle being beaten. My parents told those stories fairly frequently.

"Do not communicate this meeting to anyone in any way," I said. "You may go."

The elf squirmed and after several minutes, wriggled onto his feet, and Apparated away.

I sat on the bathroom floor staring at the spot where Kreacher had been. Riddle was crueller than I'd appreciated, and he had murdered so many people, including Harry's parents. He had forced an innocent, if slightly unpleasant, house elf to drink a potion that still haunted him. And yet I felt so removed from everyone drama and misery; why was his cruelty considered so bad anyway?

Hearing Hermione rant about house elf rights was boring. It was another layer of pretence, and maybe cruelty- simple outright cruelty- was the truth. Kreacher wasn't pitiable in any way, and he had gone to Voldemort, hadn't he? Willingly submitted himself? What did he- what did his "master" expect- Voldemort to hug him and offer him roast dinner?

Riddle hadn't lied about anything. He wanted, for some mysterious, exciting reason, to drop a locket into that basin, and he'd done so. It was impressive how he'd put up all those safety measure: the blood gateway, the invisible boat, the lake filled with "hands", the potion that ripped Kretcher's insides. Clever.

It was clever to use a house-elf, a disposable being that no one would search for. I admired the cold thought processes. I had listened to Hermione's rants for too long.

This was a different world. One of action, movement, danger. As the days past, I became addicted to Kreacher's stories, and would summon him twice or even three times a day. The elf was grudging and a bad storyteller, but he was my only means.

"You're so dreamy now," Lily commented once, as she ladled sausages onto her plate.

"That's incest," I said dully.

She laughed. "No! I meant you're always daydreaming now, hovering around, not speaking… I think I liked the old Rose better, to be honest!"

The old Rose. Who was she? I remembered my old passion for Quidditch, how I would tease Lily constantly, mockingly ask Hugo about sex-change operations, berate James for his pranks. That old life had been a lie, a time when I'd let myself be moulded into the Rose Weasley I was expected to be: the daughter of the saviours of the world.

Scorpius had shown me Magic, the sort that surpassed Hogwart's classes and went deeper. We fell in love hovering over potions books, muttering incarnations, longing to create something beyond us. Being with him created an unfavourable contrast against everyone else: I couldn't help but notice how frivolous, emotional, weak my family and old friends were. They were batted about by a chaotic thunderstorm inside them, a thunderstorm which was nothing compared to what Scorpius and I prised our way into to, or what Voldemort did.

But even Scorpius… I wondered what he was doing now but didn't care. Why would I anymore?

"See!" Lily cried. "You've started dreaming again, Rose!"

"Yeah," I said, tired of Lily's energy. "Yeah, whatever."

From Kreacher, I learnt of Riddle's absolute power, of his harsh practicality.

"You saw him. What did he look like?" I asked a few days later.

The elf stared at me in complete disbelief and he let out a strange cackling noise which might have been laughter. I blushed violently. I knew it was so superficial, the sort of thing only Lily would care about, but the words had burst from my mouth before I could stop them.

"What?" I said, throwing my hair over my shoulders and staring up at the bathroom ceiling. "Tell me."

"Kreacher is not caring about appearances."

"Tell me everything you remember then! I command you!" I cried out in frustration, shaking the elf's bony frame. His head bounced up and down as if on a spring.

Once he'd recovered, Kreacher turned his empty black eyes on me and said, "I remember very little."

Other the last few days, Kreacher had entirely stopped calling me Mistress, or bowing on entering. He'd become more and more difficult, scowling, avoiding questions, spitting out the shortest replies. It obviously hurt him to remember Voldemort, which half-impressed me, half irritated me.

"Tell me everything you remember, and I command it's the truth."

The elf reached out and fastened his long bony figured around my arm, constricting my blood flow. His nails dug into my skin, drops of blood welling there. Pain throbbed down my arm but I didn't care.

"I command you tell me everything about his appearance that you remember," I repeated, and this time the elf spoke.

"He's having pale skeleton skin, and waxy. Kreacher is not looking into his eyes but they is snake-like, wide eyes, slightly bloodshot. His nose and mouth is distorted into slits and his hair is unpeeling. black. I is not looking at him any longer."

Ginny had said he was good-looking, charming, sympathetic. I had been imagining his appearance as lot more… erotic. Ginny who blushed and simpered over Harry Potter wouldn't be drawn the figure Kreacher described: deformed, inhuman and ugly. The Dark Arts must have transformed him from a handsome teenager to Kreacher's nightmare.

He had willingly chosen to give up his looks for power and knowledge. He hadn't cared about whispers, about what he should look like, about any of it. It was brilliant. He was majestic and unrestrained.

"Go," I said to Kreacher. He Apparated away with a snap, leaving the bleeding imprint of his fingernails on my arm.

I didn't even realise what I'd forgotten to say before it was too late. I left the bathroom and James went charging past me, howling that I'd been in there hours! Rolling my eyes, I was immediately grabbed by Hugo, who demanded I play Quidditch with them. I acted as the most neglectful Keeper ever until dinner. Hermione served me a plate of chicken and peas which I swallowed dutifully, and I was just about to get up from the table when she stopped me.

"Rose, can you just- stay here a minute?"

I shrugged and lowered myself back into the chair. She waited till everyone else but Ron had left the table in groups, nattering constantly, before she said, "Rose, Kreacher told us something, uh, very disturbing."

My body went limp, and for a moment I understood Kreacher's dishrag state. Stupid! I had forgotten to command him not to tell this time! Motor waves shot through me, hitting electrical signals, rebounding, exploding. My mouth was full of bitterness and I had to swallow to stop myself puking.

"What the hell, Rose?" Ron burst out.

"What?" I said, trying for defiance but my voice was small and quiet.

"You know what!" Ron shouted, standing up and sweeping a chicken's leg onto the floor. "Kreacher told us: you've been begging for stories of Voldemort, wanking off about his appearance, you deranged-."

"Ron!" Hermione said. She stared at me for a long moment. "Rosie, we don't understand what you've slipped into, how this happened?"

For the first time, they were waiting for an answer. "I was bored, OK?" I said. "I was bored of us being perfect celebrity saviours. I didn't choose to be your daughter, OK?"

"Bored," Ron said, whistling. "Bored. You play tiddlywinks when you're bored, Rose, you don't start worshipping the most evil sociopathic man who's ever lived."

"Was it Scorpius?" Hermione said abruptly. "Did he start showing you death eater propaganda?"

"Him! That Malfoy boy! Of course! I _told_ you not to mix with him and you went and started shagging him! Of course!"

"No, it wasn't Scorpius!" I shouted. "Because you won't let me see him! Because you won't let me do anything than be the saviour of the world's daughter!"

"We let you do healthy things, just not worship Voldemort," Ron spluttered.

"Exactly," I said. "I'm leaving."

They began to protest but I didn't care. I was sixteen years old. I hated this family. I saw Hermione's face collapse and was silently delighted. Without looking at them, I stormed up to my room, grabbed my suitcase I'd left unpacked, and slammed the front door on my family's goggling faces.

###

It was after I'd been walking briskly through the suburb streets for ten minutes, dragging my suitcase behind me, with a clunk, clunk, clunk, that reason deigned to enter my mind. I couldn't storm through these streets forever; at some point, I must sleep.

I hadn't had my apparition test yet, but was certain I could Apparate without trouble. I had been the first person to find myself in the next hoop, and over a few sessions, I had completely mastered Apparating across the Great Hall, while Albus continued to lunge towards the hoop and look pleased if he landed.

But where to? I thought of Scorpius, his pale hair hanging over his forehead. His eyes- washed out blue with long lashes- would widen when he saw me, and his lips would twitch, into almost a smile. He'd be delighted, but would remain chilly and civil. Just as boxed in and as afraid of the rules as everyone. Betrayed, I realised that being aloof was simply hiding what he wanted, felt, looked for. Another lie.

It wasn't that I didn't used to think he was a great boyfriend. It was just that the day had moved, the shadows had shifted. The old Rose who loved him had gone. Sorry, Scorpius.

Of course, I could go back to Hogwarts. That was undoubtedly what my family expected me to do, once they realised I wouldn't return crying to Mummy's arms. I was still affectionate towards Hogwarts, which had helped me grow and learn. It had been a respite from a family's chaos, and in the library, the potion dungeon, I had discovered my powers. These were now a stepping stone to escape from the lot of them, and I was grateful for giving my independence. But how ridiculous it would be, to return to school, and waste the gift they gave me!

To Diagon Alley? To take out my savings and rent a room and find a good job? Me? I didn't want to submit myself to scrubbing floors, or whatever work a sixteen year old girl without NEWT qualifications could get! I knew who I wanted to submit myself to.

Still, I needed somewhere to see, so I unwillingly Disapparated to the leaky cauldron, where I rented a room for a night from my Gringotts' account. Mrs Abbotts looked strangely at me, and even asked why I was alone, but I gave her a sneering look and she fell silent.

Now it almost ten, and the outside was thick black. My room was small and dingy, with several chemical lamps, patched curtains, and an almost barren metal bed, with a duvet that clearly used to belong as a rug. I thought of my room at Ron and Hermione's house, painted in pastel pink from when I was five, with the fur carpet, with posters taped over the walls, and swore never to return.

I knew who I wanted to submit myself to.

Voldemort. The name swelled inside me like home-made bread. Tom Riddle.

I wanted his harshness, the brutal reality of him, the bloodshot eyes scrutinising me without glancing anyway when he saw me looking back. I loved the danger of it.

I pulled off my clothes and threw them in a crumpled heap next to the bed, and flung myself on it, stark naked. My tits bounced slightly and I threw my arms above my head, exposing myself.

Take me, Voldemort. Make everything blur into grey. Possess me like you possessed Ginny so long ago.

I willingly submit.

The day moves, the shadows shift. Possess me.

.

.

**A/N: Written for the "I fell in a love with a dead boy/girl" competition, and the "Rare Pairings Challenge". Otherwise, I would no way have written anything as messed-up as this. Really messed up. So opinions? OTT? Scary? Just funny? I have no idea what it was meant to be...**


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